Page 53 of The Love Losers

I smile distractedly, because fingerprint fuckery is an inherently funny phrase—and also because I’m relieved. I believe her. Nicole is a woman who gets shit done, and it feels good to have shared my problem. To be doing something toward fixing it. To be giving myself a chance. “Thank you. Seriously. Our siblings aren’t even married yet, and you’re already the best sister-in-law I’ve ever had.”

“I’m going to need that on a T-shirt.”

“I don’t know. What if Seamus marries someone really cool?” I ask, then laugh at my own comment, because Seamus is as likely to get married as he is to request a circus-themed tea.

Nicole points at me. “Now you’re just screwing with me. Because youknowI’m the best sister-in-law you’re ever going to have. You just admitted Seamus is never going to get married, and I’ve already met Anthony’s sister.” She scowls. “The woman can hold her alcohol, I’ll grant her that, but she’s a lawyer. All lawyers are boring. They can’t help themselves. And I say this as someone who has friends who are lawyers.”

“You have friends?” I ask, wide-eyed.

She grins and holds up her hand. “Give it to me.”

I slap her hand, grinning back, but my smile falls after half a second. “But what if the time isn’t right for Anthony and me? Maybe—”

Nicole reaches out and presses her finger to my lips. “Cautious is not a good look on you, Rosie. If you decide to wait for the perfect time, you’ll keep waiting, and someday you’ll wake up alone, old, and baking brownies instead of going out to bars.”

“She’s right, dear,” Joy says as she returns to what she was doing. She cuts the brownies and puts a few on plates, then arranges the plates on a serving platter. “Although thereissomething to be said for going on a trip while sitting at home.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ROSIE

Conversation with Anthony

I’m going to send a car service to pick you up.

Nope, taking an uber.

I don’t think an uber would be allowed past the gates. They like to know who they’re letting in and out.

Oh, so they’re hoity-toity stables.

Yes, exactly. The car will arrive at your apartment building at 10 a.m.

I feel like a celebrity.

Good. Your unicorn awaits.

I’m hyperventilating.

Don’t hyperventilate.

And definitely don’t drink any of Joy’s special tea.

Although it would make the experience more realistic.

When the town car pulls up to the stables, Anthony is standing by his silver luxury car, leaning against the side. He’s wearing one of his collared shirts under his coat, and my fingers itch to touch it. While they’re at it, they’d like to trace the rest of him. His jeans hug him in all the right places.

Something changed in me last night, after I learned our situation is not necessarily hopeless.

I want to learn his territory and then stake it.

“Be cool, be cool,” I murmur to myself.

“Oh, you’ll be just fine,” says Paolo, the driver, who looks jolly but has spent the last fifteen minutes telling me a lengthy story about his horse-riding injury. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. I only fell off because I tried to feed her a carrot. The back injury was because she stepped on me, and even then, I was only bedridden for a week.”

Surprisingly, Paolo’s story has done nothing to kill my mood. I feel like I swallowed a bright tangle of Christmas lights.

“Thanks, Paolo,” I say, even though he has not been particularly helpful or encouraging. “Have a Happy Christmas, man. I hope everything goes well for you.”

---